Once More
by Dr. Cultural Studies
Summary: Freedom. It was something that all of the Nations in that Mansion craved. (A three-shot series based on HetaOni. No pairings.)


**Once More**

**A HetaOni Fan Fiction**

**TW: **violence, gore, death, HetaOni

* * *

_Bottomless vales and boundless floods,_  
_And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,_  
_With forms that no man can discover_  
_For the tears that drip all over;_  
_Mountains toppling evermore_  
_Into seas without a shore;_

**"Dreamland" Edgar Allen Poe**

* * *

"The spray of the sea," Britain murmured. "The sun beating down on my back and the smell of saltwater." He pressed his back against the wall and let out a dark chuckle. His head was throbbing terribly and he suspected that his magic was slowly returning. He couldn't say for sure. All things seemed numbed, deadened. Perhaps it was the number of times he had already died. Regardless, he felt determined to get the longing out of his system. It would not do to go into battle distracted. Turning his head, he tried to hide the way his eyes were filling with unshed tears. "I—I miss those things," he explained. "Those days."

"I know—I know the feeling, amigo." Arthur lifted his eyes and looked toward the other wall. Spain was half-propped there, holding his bleeding chest. There were tears still on his cheeks, half-dried. It had been less than ten minutes since Romano had been killed. Spain was entitled to a moment of weakness. With the number of times that he had watched Alfred fall to the monster, Britain could understand the man's heartache. "Remember—Remember those times when we would battle on the high seas? Those…were the days…"

"No," Britain shook his head tiredly. He couldn't feel his fingers or toes. The loss of blood would do him in eventually. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed. It seemed that this was not the round, not the round that he would see the sky. "I remember kicking your mutinous hide— to—to kingdom come."

"I remember it," Antonio sighed, "a little— d-differently." Shifting, the Spaniard grunted out a low curse. Arthur could see his friend's pain in the darkness. It was sickening to watch the life practically seep from Spain's body. Only a few minutes longer and he would be the last. Once more, he would be the lone survivor of this repetitious massacre. Too many times had that been his _sentence_. Too many times had he watched his friends be torn to pieces. "Say, B-Britain…Do you…" Arthur watched Spain's labored wet breathing, counting down the moments. "Do you believe that we will…escape…one day?" There were tears falling. It was the closest to rain they would ever be. "Free…Do you think…" So much fear. There was so much fear.

Arthur took a deep breath and held it, unwilling to make false promises to a dying man. His eyes squeezed shut, closing out the bloodied image that lay before him. Like so many others. "I always beat you at chess. Every time. I always thought…thought that I had bested you. My old rival. Bested you…You…You lost on purpose?" His eyes opened and he looked toward the ceiling, silently praying for freedom that he knew would never come. Not this go around.

"See… the sea again…and the sun. And our…people…" Spain breathed. There was the rattle, that old death knell Britain knew so well. His eyes turned back to Antonio. It was only a few moments. That's all Antonio had left. Moments, seconds. A scant few before he would be alone once more. Gathering what little strength he had, Britain pushed himself off the wall and struggled along the floor. Spain was looking upward, as if there were someone there. Every time, the same. "Come to get me, eh? Don't yell…at me…for…being late."

"Sp-Spain…please…don't—"Just as Britain laid his hand upon the dying man, Spain let out a quivering breath. His eyes widened—as they had ever time before—and he went still.

Letting out a choked sob, Arthur rested his head on his arm and willed himself to think of other things, other places.

Soon enough, that monster would come through the unlocked door.

And he had no strength to lock it. He had no strength to fight. There was so much he could have done, but it was all for naught. The cycle would start again. It seemed…it seemed that this round was a waste. He wasn't even able to save Italy. It wasn't able to save America, nor Canada. Not even France. He saved no one, not even himself. At one time, he might've thought his shed tears ungentlemanly, but…his tears were only the product of his grief. To be the last, that was the most terrifying experience of all.

So, he imagined fog rolling over the hills and vales of home. He imagined the spray of the sea misting against his face as he leaned into the wind. Nothing but freedom and boundless surf. Blue to the horizon, the warmth of the sun. He longed to return to those times once more. Not the violence of that history, but the freedom of it. The continuous and unending horizon. He could sail and sail and sail. Never-ending, off into sunset and night.

* * *

Once more...

* * *

There was a peaceful sort of feel about it. Death, that is. It just sweeps you up, drawing you into the darkness like a rogue river or flood. One breath and you're there. One breath and the pain ends and the hurt ceases. One breath and there is nothing. Nothing but the next go around. The next attempt. He could not quite process how fast it swept over him, the realization that Death was coming once more to take him. It was so sudden, so quick. One firm strike to his chest and Britain knew by instinct, or by experience. It was a mortal blow, shattering his ribs.

America screamed his name and, for a moment—a single bloody moment—Britain wished that he had another chance. To do things right. To fix his mistakes. To be the father or brother that he could never be. He would have done so much more, protected him a little longer. There was nothing for that line of thought. He was losing his grip too fast. Death was taking him quickly this time. This time…there would be no tears. Not for him. Perhaps the others would cry though. He liked to think himself worth their tears.

When his body struck the floor, the pain was excruciating. Something was filling the back of his throat. He could not find the strength to turn over. He was drowning, he realized. Drowning in his own blood. His eyes widened as he felt the blood start to fill his mouth, watching as America was struck down with one solid blow. His fingers twitched, but he could do nothing.

* * *

Once more...

* * *

"The rain," Britain murmured. "A good book and tea." He pressed his back against the wall and let out a dark chuckle. His head was throbbing terribly and he suspected that his magic was slowly returning. He couldn't say for sure. All things seemed numbed, deadened. Perhaps it was the number of times he had already died. Regardless, he felt determined to get the longing out of his system. It would not do to go into battle distracted. Turning his head, he tried to hide the way his eyes were filling with unshed tears. "I—I miss those things," he explained. "Those days."

"Some…cola and a burger…w-with bacon..." Arthur lifted his eyes and looked toward the other wall. America was sprawled against the cabinet. His head was bleeding and his glasses were gone. There were tear trails on his cheeks, half-dried. Canada had fallen with France only twenty minutes before they had become trapped in that dark room. Now, America was slowly dying. "I—I've never regretted it…you know."

"No," Britain shook his head tiredly. "I w-wouldn't…expect you to." He couldn't feel his fingers or toes. The loss of blood would do him in eventually, if the monster didn't come to finish the job. It was only a matter of time before he succumbed. It seemed that this was not the round, not the round that he would see the sky once again.

"B-Britain," America murmured weakly, "you're crying." Shifting, Alfred grunted out a low curse. Arthur could see his friend's- his brother's- pain in the darkness. It was sickening to watch the life practically seep from America's body. He was always so full of energy, annoyingly so. Always so full of life and promise. Only a few minutes longer and Arthur would be the last. Once more, he would be the lone survivor of this repetitious massacre. Too many times had that been his _sentence_. Too many times had he watched his friends be torn to pieces before his very eyes. "B-Britain…Do you…" Arthur watched America's eyes begin to close. Alfred was fighting it, struggling against death with all his strength. Arthur felt sick. "Are you s-scared…of d-death?" There were tears falling. It was the closest to rain they would ever be. "I'm…I'm scared, Brit-Britain…"

So much fear. There was always so much fear.

Arthur took a deep breath and held it, unwilling to make false promises to a dying man. Not to Alfred, most of all. His eyes squeezed shut, closing out the bloodied image that lay before him. Like so many others. So many times. "I'll…I'll have you know that Doctor…Doctor Who is the…finest television show…there is. You cannot convince me otherwise. You cannot...steal it...like every other show..." His eyes opened and he looked toward the ceiling, silently praying for freedom that he knew would never come. Not this go around.

"Ya know… 'm not gonna argue…with ya on... that one. One thing…our people…agr—Ah...N-no..." Alfred breathed. There was the rattle, that old death knell Britain knew so well. His eyes turned back to America. It was only a few moments. That's all his brother had left. Moments, seconds. A scant few before he would be alone once more. Again. Again. Gathering what little strength he had, Britain pushed himself off the wall and struggled along the floor. Alfred was looking upward, as if there were someone there. Every time, the same. Everyone, the same. "Dude, you gonna… take me home? C'mon Matt—"

"Please, n-not again…Alfred, don't—America!"Just as Britain laid his hand upon the dying man, America let out a quivering breath. His blue eyes widened—as they had ever time before—

and he went still.

Letting out a choked sob, Arthur rested his head on his arm and willed himself to think of other things, other places. It hurt more and more every time.

Soon enough, that monster would come through the unlocked door.

And he had no strength to lock it.

He had no strength to fight.

There was so much he could have done, but it was all for naught. The cycle would start again. It seemed…it seemed that this round was a waste. He wasn't even able to save Italy. It wasn't able to save America, nor Canada. Not even France. He saved no one, not even himself. At one time, he might've thought his shed tears ungentlemanly, but…his tears were only the product of his grief.

To be the last, that was the most terrifying experience of all.

So, he imagined fog rolling over the hills and vales of home.

He imagined the spray of the sea misting against his face as he leaned into the wind.

Nothing but freedom and boundless surf.

Blue to the horizon, the warmth of the sun.

He longed to return to those times once more. Not the violence of that history, but the freedom of it. The continuous and unending horizon. He could sail and sail and sail.

Never-ending, off into sunset and night.

* * *

**Author's Section:**

This one is dedicated to Creativay, who traded me a drawing or two for a HetaOni piece. This will be a three-shot series. I hope that everyone "enjoyed." It was very emotional to write and I expect pretty traumatizing to read. It was meant to be. Please leave me some feedback! Thank you for reading!


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